


Ready

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 23:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13177305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Elrond prepares Lindir for their dinner.





	Ready

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Lindir’s trembling with nerves. He eyes himself in the mirror above the sink, his plain, unattractive face, and wonders how this could ever possibly go well. With his hair loose about his shoulders and his body wrapped in a colourless bathrobe, it seems like there’s no hope for him. But he knows that isn’t for him to decide. He gave himself to another, and he’ll follow his master’s lead, even if that master has hopes too high for him.

Lindir forces himself to wander out into the bedroom, where Lord Elrond’s seated at a desk, already fully dressed and beautiful. He looks over and offers Lindir a kind smile, rising. Lindir opens his mouth, wanting to say: _don’t bother_ , but then he sucks the words back in. Elrond has told him to banish such doubts. He _tries_ to obey.

He lowers his gaze as Elrond comes to him. Elrond’s face presses into the side of his, breath hot against the line of his jaw. For a moment, they stand like that: almost nuzzling like deer, huddled up for comfort. Then Elrond straightens again, and his hands fall to Lindir’s waist.

Elrond deftly pulls Lindir’s sash away. His bathrobe falls open, and Elrond brushes it easily back from his shoulders. Lindir’s breath hitches, but it’s hardly the first time he’s been naked before his lord. That isn’t it, not anymore. It’s having Elrond so tenderly undressing him takes his breath away. Lindir straightens and moves with Elrond’s touches, trying to help, but Elrond still _tends to him_. Elrond bundles up the bathrobe to place aside, and then he’s carrying new robes to Lindir’s waiting body. He lifts the first silken sheath above Lindir’s head, letting the translucent fabric flutter down his frame: the underclothes of old. It feels strangely soft against his freshly washed skin: too rich for his blood. Then Elrond guides the lavender robes over each arm. He wraps them across Lindir’s front, tying them tight, and fits the chestnut-coloured corset-middle overtop. It sucks close against Lindir’s chest. He holds it up as Elrond stands behind him, fastening the ties.

When that’s finished, a gold belt loops around his waist: completing the ensemble. It’s worth more than Lindir’s life, just like the diadem that Elrond has set aside for the very end. He doesn’t put that on yet—Lindir’s hair is still a mess.

When the clothes are taken care of, Elrond takes Lindir’s hand, and he guides Lindir to the wide bed against the wall. Lindir climbs up onto the mattress and crawls towards the middle, sitting down and straight. Elrond comes behind him, brush in hand.

It’s already too much. The robes are _exquisite_ —Lindir can’t stop looking at his sleeves. They feel exactly as gorgeous as they are. But it’s made worse by Elrond’s fingers in his hair, because that always undoes him. Elrond’s hands on _any_ part of him always does. But especially _this_ , with Elrond tangling up in his dark locks, lightly tugging at his skull—he prickles with each reminder. Elrond weaves a magenta ribbon into a thick braid that falls evenly down his spine. The gentle moment makes Lindir both quake in apprehension and shiver with delight. Elrond overloads him.

Elrond asks him quietly, while the evening sun casts gold across the blankets, “How was your day, my love?”

Lindir’s eyes fall closed at those last two words, and it sends a calming ripple through him. At the same time, it compounds his discontent. Only because he’d _never_ lie to his beloved lord, he admits, “It does feel... somewhat _wrong_... to have you wait on me like this...”

“I understand,” Elrond murmurs, though he always tells Lindir that they’re no longer _lord_ and _servant_. “And it is also unnecessary, for Maglor will not judge you.”

Lindir sucks in a breath. The name alone stirs his heart. He whispers reverently, “One of the sons of Fëanor... truly here, in our lands...” Then he nearly wails, “I am unworthy.”

“You will sit at my side,” Elrond calmly tells him, utterly unperturbed. “You will look wondrous either way. But if it will comfort you, I will make you look as a lord of old, just as I have promised, and you will be fit to sit at even his father’s table.”

Lindir doesn’t think that could ever be true. The clothes are only skin-deep, and surely his hair will never match the ancient splendor. But the idle trappings do give him some comfort, and more over does Elrond’s approval—he wants to look fitting when he enters the hall on Elrond’s arm. He can feel the last of his braid falling into place.

Then Elrond is finished, and his strong hands clasp Lindir’s slender shoulders. He leans over to brush a kiss across Lindir’s cheek, and Lindir croons, leaning into Elrond’s warmth. It would be easier to stay _here_ , safe in Elrond’s bed.

But he’s always idolized the fabled Maglor, the greatest harpist their world has ever known, and even more so, he’s wanted to meet a man who raised his darling lord. He tells Elrond, “I am ready.”

In truth, he’s still nervous. But Elrond hooks a finger beneath his chin and tilts him for a kiss, a deeper one that reassures him. It spreads a timid smile across his face, because, as long as Elrond holds him, he still has everything he’s ever wanted.

Then Elrond tugs him gently from the bed, murmuring, “Let us go.”


End file.
